Breakfast at Tiffany's
by SilverCyanide
Summary: Akaya hates summer colds, but sometimes having someone helps make it better. Pointless fluff for xxTemarixx on her sick day.


**Disclaimer:** I think we all know the answer to that.

**Notes: **Not beta'd. Set sometime that's probably in the future.

**Warnings: **Implied YukiKiri.

**A/N:** Title has nothing to do with the story. It just fits the person it's for, and she knows why. ;)

**Dedicated to xxTemarixx. Feel better hun!**

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_And I said, "What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?"_

_She said, "I think I remember the film._

_and as I recall, I think, we both kinda liked it."_

_And I said, "Well, that's the one thing we've got."_

-"Breakfast at Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something

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Kirihara Akaya would never, ever understand summer colds.

Yes, he knew the old tale about the cold getting you ill was false, but that didn't matter in his book: what mattered was the fact that it was _warm_ out, and so regardless of whether the cold go you sick you weren't supposed to get sick when it was warm!

Yet, he had somehow managed to get spectacularly ill though it was nearly June.

"Oh stop scowling so much," Yukimura chided lightly from where he was standing at the stove. He was by no means a fantastic cook, but sometimes desperate times (such as a heavily pouting Akaya) called for desperate measures, and he _had_ always been one to rise to the challenge.

"But it's _summer_! You're not supposed to get sick during _summer!_" The whine was a hoarse rasp and Akaya promptly began to hack up a lung after he had spoken. Yukimura rolled his eyes but handed the younger boy a glass of water nonetheless.

"For one, it's technically still spring," he reminded, stirring the soup one last time. "And second, there are no boundaries on germs and their powers." He clicked the burner off, removing the pot with one hand and pulling out a bowl with the other. Steaming soup flowed in and he placed it on the kitchen table in front of the boy. Akaya quickly picked up his spoon and nearly had it to his mouth when Yukimura stopped him.

"You'll burn your tongue," Yukimura reminded, earning himself a glare. "And then you'll whine about burning your tongue."

Akaya huffed, but set the spoon down.

It wasn't long before he'd picked it back up again.

"It's still too hot." Yukimura's voice was almost sing-song in nature, a teasing reminder. Akaya glowered.

"Well whose fault is _that_?" he snapped, not really in the mood. Being sick tended to make all teasing, even that meant to be good natured, ten times more annoying. Yukimura's expression softened at Akaya's tone, and he scooted closer. Though he had an intense phobia of getting sick (it was one of the reasons he also made sure to keep the house nearly spotless), he inched forward regardless and ran fingers through the dark curls.

Akaya leaned forward, resting his head on Yukimura's shoulder; his forehead was sweaty as he was mildly feverish, and it felt good to make contact with the cool, smooth skin. Yukimura gave a small, worried sigh, but wrapped his arms around Akaya in order to pull him into his lap. It was more difficult than the last time, but the last Akaya had been ill enough to let him was in the younger boy's first year of junior high and so that wasn't too surprising.

The junior ace sagged against him, eyes closed in exhaustion and the weakness he so hated expressing. He attempted to suppress a coughing fit, but gave in a moment later; Yukimura handed him the near-empty glass on the table so he could drain it, and once that was done the older boy began murmuring poems, words in fluent French that Akaya would never even hope to understand.

One poem flowed into the next, and after a while Akaya's breathing evened, himself rising and falling in a steady pattern. Carefully, Yukimura turned the boy in his lap. Though Akaya was nearly as large as he was, but years of tennis made it easy to lift the now-sleeping boy.

Slowly he made his way to the couch, setting Akaya down and doing his best not to disturb the younger boy. Akaya managed to stay asleep, though mumbled incoherently for a moment, but Yukimura covered him with a blanket and muttered soft, soothing words.

On the table sat the untouched bowl of soup, now cold. Yukimura took a mental note to make sure Akaya replenished his fluids later. For now, though, it was clear the boy was too tired, and sleep would do him better than liquids.

With a last, caring look, Yukimura sat down on the floor, poem anthology in hand. No doubt we he woke up Akaya would be cranky and even more defiant than when he had fallen asleep, but for right now Yukimura would savor the silence and all of the peaceful moments he could get.

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**Ending A/N:** Reviews loved, because if you haven't noticed I've been falling out of PoT. D:


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